


(if that's not love, then i'm misinformed.)

by carlemon



Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies)
Genre: Drabble, Falling In Love, Fluff and Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-01
Updated: 2017-11-01
Packaged: 2019-01-27 17:59:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,268
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12587476
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/carlemon/pseuds/carlemon
Summary: Credence feels a little guilty for assuming that he'd do anything but— Newt's touch has never been anything but tender, the way he looks at Credence never not loving.Written assuming Credence leaves New York with Newt, and becomes a permanent addition and assistant to his travels.





	(if that's not love, then i'm misinformed.)

"Hold still," instructs Newt, and Credence pulls himself tighter than he ever has. He's familiar with this kind of thing, —he reflects on this bitterly, briefly, before shunting the thought aside; _that isn't you anymore remember that_ — so it's easy to shrink in on himself; he's sure that he could fit into the suitcase the way he is now, even clad in Newt's dusty shirt and too-big boots, even rendered fully boy, no longer an atrocity. He's no grand presence ordinarily, repression a craft in which he is (not entirely proudly) adept, not quite suave or maligned enough to armour himself in subterfuge instead. Grindelwald, he reflects, again somewhat poisonously, had had no such qualms, and Credence had worn all his pretty sophisms like gospel truths, because a) he had been a fool and a dreamer, and b) _of course he had._ (Mary Lou couldn't even hope for a false prophet so unparalleled in wickedness and dark.)

Newt's gentle laughter distracts him from his reverie. "Not that still," he amends, and casts an apologetic glance up at Credence. Credence flushes, attempting a weak smile. Each time Newt looks at him he's reminded of how much he treasures him, —how sure he is that he'd _die_ for him— and Newt seems to enjoy or at the very least least _bear_ looking at him too, doing so with regularity and subsequently rendering Credence a red, red, mess on a near daily basis. Now, he's crouched at Credence's feat, humming an odd little melody muffled by the scissors clenched between his teeth as he dresses Credence's wounds.

They're not as bad as they could be, —as they _should_ be, given how close Credence had gotten to the hippogriff before realising that it was, indeed, a bad idea, and he was, indeed, most likely very stupid— and god knows Credence's no stranger to tripping over his inexperience and all but _impaling_ himself on Newt's various pursuits and projects, (six months into his studies and he's already been attacked by four nifflers, all drawn by the silver buttoning his coat, one of the few luxuries Mary Lou'd afforded him. He'd burnt that jacket shortly thereafter, quietly, savagely, pleased by the pride in Newt's friendly smile) but Newt's chosen to tend to him with no less care or kindness than the first handful of times nonetheless. Credence feels a little guilty for assuming that he'd do anything _but_ — Newt's touch has never been anything but tender, the way he looks at Credence never not loving. (Credence can only hope that he looks even half as loving when he looks back, and not like a smitten little boy.) The length of gauze comes 'round again, pulling tight 'round his wrist; despite himself, Credence winces, earning himself another sympathetic glance from Newt.

"I'm sorry," he's babbling, "she does like you, she  _does,_ you just got awfully close to her eggs, and, well— you know how she is." He turns Credence's hands over in his, pressing down on where Credence was taught to expect stigmata drilled into the soft flesh if he ever dared reach from the confines imposed on him, checking for numbness. Credence wiggles his fingers, and Newt laughs, slight and helpless, cutting Credence's heart neatly into two. "She'll be alright by tomorrow— you did an excellent job getting as far as you did. She likes it when _you_ feed her— they've really started warming up to you, you know that?" His eyes meet Credence's and Credence wonders how he can be so totally enraptured with any one person. Graves— no, _Grindelwald_ and what he had offered, that had been _obsession_ , brief but overwhelming, a sickbewitchment. The idea of being anything but helpless had, too, been a sort of enchantment— before it'd been inundated entirely by dread, _fear_. This is—

— _love_ , he _hopes_ -decides- _realises_. Love in waves; the gradual, fluttering, kind. Sweetly palpable —full-bodied on his palate— between them as Newt knots up the dressing and draws the scissors from his mouth to snip off the excess. Credence flexes his wrist, inexplicably pleased at the lingering sensation of Newt's hot breath over his fingers, by how gently his fingertips ghost over the gash across the back of his hand. He—  _admires_ Newt, certainly. Adores him, even. He  _loves_ him. 

He loves him. 

He had whilst retreating into the case for the first time, and watching him wrangle doxy plagues; he _does_ watching Newt handle him like he'd like to be but does not deserve. He has— a feeling that he _will_ for a long while yet.

"All done!" chirps Newt. He squeezes Credence's fingers, then wipes his own hands on his slacks. Credence eyes him meekly, suddenly itchy in his shirt.

"I'm sorry," he mumbles, unsure for what but certain he should be more ashamed. His hands go limp without Newt's to hold them, warranting a glance, sweeping across his bowed head, from the latter that's nothing short of mystified. 

"I can't imagine what for. Credence—" His mouth hangs open for a brief moment— then, with more care than Credence knows necessary,  _(it's fine I can take it make it easy for us)_ he takes Credence's hands in his again. Puffskeins chatter sleepily in the distance, and Newt hazards a glance their way before resting the full weight of his gaze on Credence, who, to his credit, does a damn good job of not melting into putty on the spot. "You don't have to be." His smile goes a little sheepish, and before Credence can guess why, he's putting it to his bruised knuckles, pressing soft kisses down the lengths of his fingers. He reaches his fingertips before looking up at him again, and he _knows,_ and he knows Credence knows and— Credence unravels entirely, the shakiness of his resounding sigh unrivalled by all the other not-so-subtle expressions of infatuation he'd made at Newt prior. It's no secret that with Newt he has known neither greater intimacy nor kindness, and yet—

Newt can touch him  _(kiss_ him) with neither pity nor hesitation, and Credence— Credence _realises_ —like an _epiphany_ — that while he cherishes Newt, Newt might (and _does_ ) cherish him right back.

He's only half-aware of how widely he's smiling until Newt gets to his feet, the setting sunlight casting him a halo of dust not even half as radiant as the smile he levels at Credence. He holds out a hand. "We should get to the mooncalves before dark— it's either a new or full moon tonight, I don't know which, but I'd chance it's the latter. Dung to collect, fur to trim— I thought we'd lost one, going over Slovakia. Could you imagine that?" He pauses, then adds, "I think you're their favourite. They've only ever seen three people, but you seem to come top out of those."

Credence laughs, entirely hapless. Mooncalves, dim, coming to him in droves like they could carry him away if they swarmed him— of course he would be. He reaches out with his bandaged hand, then, on second thought, exchanges it for his undamaged one, clapping it into Newt's with a little more force than polite. "I'm— sorry," he repeats as he's pulled to his feet, though not as insistently the first time, timbre hazy, heavy, and face still vibrantly red. He is sweating in Newt's hand, still, in his _shirt_.

Newt squeezes his shoulder, and doesn't really respond save for a happy little hum as he leads him along the path to the mooncalves' enclosure, but he doesn't let go of Credence's hand either, and that's all it takes to make Credence's head swim.

**Author's Note:**

>  **a softer world 647:**  
>  i get a crazy impulse when you smile at me, like i want to step in front of buses in a good way.  
>  _(if that's not love, then i'm misinformed.)_


End file.
